


spaces between us

by makichan



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, more will be added as things continue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22397347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makichan/pseuds/makichan
Summary: Richie has a show in New York.  Eddie lives in New York.  Memory is a funny thing.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Kudos: 6





	spaces between us

“Mike, are y-y-you awake?” Bill’s voice is quiet, but Richie hasn’t managed to fall asleep yet, and he cracks his eyes open enough to watch Bill fidget with his hands. Except for him, the boys of the Losers Club are all sprawled out loose-limbed in Richie’s living room, heat from the summer sun still radiating off them in the dead of night. It’s the quiet that keeps Richie up; he’d rather fall asleep to a sitcom or even the radio. Stan and Eddie insisted otherwise, naturally, both of them complaining about the noise, Eddie rattling off all the adverse side effects until Richie slung a pillow at him. 

Mike stretches his arms in front of him, and slowly rolls onto his stomach with effort. His voice is muffled by the pillow, but he says “Yeah, I am.” He slightly turns his head to take in Bill, though Richie can’t see either of their expressions.

Bill is worrying the fabric of his shorts between his fingers. It often takes him a moment to collect his thoughts, though the silence seems to extend longer than usual. The breath he takes is loud and shaky. Judging from Bill’s many heavy exhales, he’s doing that thing where he furrows and relaxes his eyebrows intermittently, a sure sign he’s searching for words he doesn’t know how to say. “P-P-Promise you won’t think I’m weird or anything. Swear on it.” 

Richie perks up at this. Something scandalous? Not that he would ever use it against Bill for anything. He, Richie, is a good boy of course, of course. It’s always nice to learn new things about friends, though, right?

Bill scans the room nervously as he waits for Mike to answer. Richie feigns sleep.

“Yeah, I swear.” Now it’s Mike who sounds nervous, unsure of where the conversation is going. This summer has had no shortage of strange events, but for some reason Bill seems as panicked as ever. It’s not that Bill doesn’t ever show his anxieties; they’ve all been scared out of their minds lately. But, when push comes to shove, he’s the one leading the pack toward danger. Even if it’s just a face, it’s a brave one, and one they all look to. This Bill, however, seems like he might crumble.

Bill swallows hard, and takes an inhale that seems to last forever. “D-D-Do you ever think about other boys the way you think about g-g-g-girls?”

If the silence before was long, this one stretches ages, and Richie catches himself holding his breath until Mike speaks. “I guess sometimes. I try not to think about it too much,” Mike says quietly. He’s propped himself up on his elbows, but he keeps his gaze on his pillow. “We have other things to focus on, y’know?”

Richie balls his hands into fists until his nails break the skin, his breath waiting and burning his lungs but he still can’t breathe in. Maybe Mike has a point. After all, there’s the house on Neibolt Street, looming and imposing and reeking of dry rot, and something else they don’t want to think about. There’s the sewers, and there’s Henry, and there’s Georgie, and there’s that thing that keeps them all together. But, in the middle of nights like this one, Richie wonders about the same things Bill does.

“Do you th-think it’s bad?” Bill chokes out his question, his voice cracking into a whisper on the last word. He’s not choosing his words carefully, anymore. They’re spilling out like they’ve been saved for ages. “Do you th-think it makes us b-b-b-b-bad? Am I a bad person?”

Richie lets himself open his eyes again, sees Bill’s shoulders quivering like there’s a chill in the air. The longer Mike goes without saying anything, the more Bill shrinks into himself, a mere molecule of the way he seems leading them on their bikes. For once, he seems small. For once, Bill seems like he’s the most scared.

Mike, however, is cautious with his wording. “I don’t think so. Different. But not bad. Just different.” The tension releases from Bill’s shoulders, and Richie’s finally allows himself to breathe, shaking, sputtering. His nails have dug small indents into the palms of his hands.

Richie quickly turns over, and squeezes his eyes shut. Bill, or maybe Mike, is saying something else, something Richie can’t hear over his own internal babbling; a chorus of “whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck” and even that is almost drowned out by the pounding of his heart. 

He’s shaking, he thinks. He’s shaking, or there’s an earthquake, or the ground is going to swallow him up, or, or, or--

Richie suddenly opens his eyes to make sure none of that is happening.

The world is fine. It’s an average late night in Derry.

Average until he locks eyes with Eddie, wide-eyed and looking as bewildered as Richie is feeling. They stare at each other, the heaviness back in the air. A flush of red creeps up the back of Richie’s neck. “What the fuck are you looking at?” he mouths, though the words don’t have the usual teasing bite he’s used to; they’re strained, a desperate attempt to deflect any emotion. He’s still shaking; Richie wishes it actually was the ground about to draw him into the Earth’s core so he wouldn’t melt under Eddie’s gaze.

Eddie’s face twitches, him too devoid of any familiar animation. Instead, he stares, unblinkingly.

Then, as suddenly as their eyes met, Eddie covers his head with his blanket, leaving Richie to gape at a blank form.

Without thinking, Richie copies him, screwing his eyes shut. 

His mom told him before about counting sheep; he doesn’t know if that’ll work. He tries, but the sheep are jumping too quickly over the fence, the numbers are passing too quickly, fuck, he can’t count that fast. He only gets to seven before his brain starts back at one. ‘Just like us.’ The thought passes as quickly as it comes.

There’s a wolf circling the farm and he really tries to count higher than seven, but he just restarts and restarts and restarts and the wolf is inching closer each time.

Poor little sheep.

\--

The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac hard, jolting Richie awake. He’s sweating and he feels nauseated. Judging from the side glances of the passenger next to him, he must look like shit. What a way to start the weekend.

Overhead, the pilot announces their arrival at LaGuardia Airport. Scattered applause moves through the cabin, though most have started to prepare to get their luggage. 

Richie doesn’t feel like moving at all. He’s got a decent career going as a comedian, shouldn’t someone do the tedious shit for him? It’s not a huge career, no, but surely it’s enough to not have to lug his stuff off a plane, right?

He knows he shouldn’t think that way, not that he’s humble by any stretch of the word. But, he can hear his mother berating him to not make too much trouble for anyone, do things himself, all the usual motherly orders that apparently don’t stop even when you’re an adult.

He switches his phone off airplane mode. Within moments, a text from his manager arrives, and Richie opens it as he waits for the procession to reach his row. They’ve called a limo for the weekend, apparently, and it’ll be waiting at the pick up area. At this, Richie scoffs. They can shell out money for a limo, but a first class ticket is too much? He’d rather get a little extra leg room and early boarding than a long car for his one person. The only thing he can consider a consolation prize, if it even exists, is the booze that he hopes is plentifully stocked. If he can’t get the free drinks in first class, then he’ll have to take it from the limo.

Then again, it might not be that kind of limo; Richie’s thinking of the ones he sees outside the bars with the bachelorette parties pouring out of them. 

If it’s not there, he’ll just buy his own and pregame with the partition up.

Finally, there’s an opportune moment to grab his bag from the overhead storage, and Richie takes it. He makes the awkward shuffle through the cabin, his bag weighing heavily on his shoulder. It’s a relief when he gets to the gate and he’s not in the crowd of the plane. Granted, it’s a different crowd, the crowd of an airport which, in his opinion, is too big. The bustle pushes him forward, barely giving him enough time to suss out the location of the pick up area. Thank god it’s not an international flight, he thinks. Even better, he only has a carry-on bag. He can go right to the limo-- oh how fancy he is.

It’s more walking than he’s used to doing, and his mood lifts when he’s able to get out into the fresh air. Well, fresh for New York.

Richie wasn’t expecting a jeep limo and Jesus Christ, doesn’t he look conspicuous walking toward the giant thing. It’s overkill, for sure. Hello, ladies and gentlemen! It’s me! Richie Tozier! I’m not a well-known comedian but apparently my manager thinks I deserve this big gas guzzler! Please enjoy watching me and my one bag get into a car built for multiple people. Thank you, thank you, you’re too kind. No autographs, please, I have a hotel to get to and drink alone in.

For a moment, he stupidly worries it’s the wrong one, and he quickly looks around to see if there’s another limo somewhere. Of course, there isn’t, and he continues his weird, embarrassing walk.

The driver exits the car, and walks around to greet him. Richie is too busy shifting his bag to look at him, but the “Mr. Tozier?” confirms he’s in the right place.

“Mr. Tozier is my father,” Richie says in the most irritating voice he can manage. “I don’t need that formality stuff. Just Richie is fine. And don’t bother grabbing my bag, it’s just one.”

When his driver doesn’t say anything in response, Richie takes a glance at him for the first time, and stops in his tracks. Suddenly, without thinking, he blurts out a name he hasn’t used in years.

“Eds?”

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to my boyfriend for reading and editing and suggesting ways to make this better. he has no idea what any of this is about but i'm lucky he's happy to help. feel free to follow me on twitter @ danchiku. i mostly talk about kpop (unfortunately) but i also have a healthy dose of reddie in there!


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